


Open up the window and let me breathe

by indefinissable



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Holidays, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Recreational Drug Use, dean is going through some shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 03:16:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17614391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indefinissable/pseuds/indefinissable
Summary: In which Dean moves into a new building and can’t seem to catch a break (or his breath, for that matter). The guy who lives next door is all right though.





	Open up the window and let me breathe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [schmerzerling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/schmerzerling/gifts).



> This is a very late, not-so-Secret Santa gift for my wonderful, talented friend and TrashBrigade sister [schmerzerling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/schmerzerling/pseuds/schmerzerling). Her writing is an inspiration to me, and anything good about this fic is more than likely an idea I stole from one of hers. I hope it's worth the wait. 
> 
> Thank you to my exceptional team of betas, Janet, Nat, and Alison, for all their suggestions and support. I don't think I could have finished this without them.
> 
> See endnotes for some spoilery notes.

Dean hauls the last box up by himself. Bobby offers to come up and help Dean start unpacking, but Dean thanks him for everything and insists he’s got it covered from here. After making Dean promise to call if he needs anything, Bobby claps him hard on the shoulder, gets back in his truck and drives away down the slush-covered street.

The only elevator in the building is out of order and Dean’s place is on the fourth floor, so he wedges the box under his arm and slogs up eight flights of stairs for what feels like the hundredth time today. He’s out of breath by the time he gets to the top, sweating from the climb but still chilled by the December air outside. He pushes through the door to his apartment, sets the box down and coughs into his elbow. Digs out his inhaler and takes a drag. Holds it in for ten seconds and then lets his breath out. Clears his throat a few times.

Now that he’s getting his breath back and the rushing of his own heartbeat in his ears is starting to die down, Dean realizes how quiet it is. The sound of his breathing echoes loudly through the empty studio apartment.

He nudges the last box out of the way with his foot and flops down on the futon, taking stock of his new home. The kitchen faucet drips rhythmically. A single window above the sink looks out on the street below. Paint is peeling away from the walls in some places to reveal patterned wallpaper underneath. The few pieces of furniture he’d kept from the old place—his bed, a nightstand, coffee table, and TV—are far from enough to give the impression that a functional adult lives here. He hadn’t even kept the TV stand, which was stupid, he knows, but it’s too late now. It’s donated or junked along with everything else. The ten or so boxes piled up near the door are all that’s left.

Dean shivers. It’s freezing. He gets up, grabs a beer from the fridge and cranks the radiator higher. He sits back down on the futon, hooks his phone up to the wireless speakers and turns his music up loud enough to drown out the quiet.

+

It’s dark out when he wakes up and there’s an awful crick in his neck. The music has stopped and his phone is ringing shrilly. Dean fumbles for the phone with one hand and massages his sore neck with the other.

“What?” he snaps.

“Dean?” Ah, shit. One word in and Sam already sounds worried. “You were gonna call when you finished moving all your stuff.”

“Shit,” Dean says, casting around for the time before remembering he doesn’t have a clock anymore. Or if he does, it’s buried in a box somewhere. “Sorry. Fell asleep.”

“Right,” Sam says. Then, “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, much better.”

“Okay.” Sam doesn’t sound convinced. He’s quiet for a while. Dean can picture him clearly, sitting at his desk with his brow scrunched up, chewing his fingernails anxiously.

Dean sighs. “What is it, Sam?”

“I just really think you should come out here,” Sam says. “We’re going to Jess’s parents’ place for Christmas dinner. I know they’d love to meet you.”

“Look,” Dean says. “I appreciate it, but I got a lot of shit to take care of here. Besides, I can’t really afford the flight right now.”

Sam presses on. “Dean, I’m worried about you. I know you’ve had a tough time coming to grips with what happened, but you have to—”

There it is. The sharp flare of anger he’s been waiting for. “Hey, I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.”

He hangs up. It’s after three in the morning. He stands, stretches, coughs into his elbow. He’s too warm now, heat buzzing under his skin, so he cranks the radiator back down.

The second time his phone lights up with an incoming call, he turns it off.

+

The next day, Dean coughs awhile before getting out of bed. It’s always worse when he first wakes up, after all the nasty shit has had time to settle into his lungs overnight. After taking a hit from his inhaler, he makes it as far as the kitchen before he realizes he has no idea which box he packed the coffee maker in. Groggy, he gets dressed and fumbles his way downstairs and across the street to the coffee shop he remembers seeing there yesterday. It’s warm inside, and there are colourful Christmas lights and garlands strung up on the walls. It’s tacky, but in the homey sort of way Dean likes. He orders a black coffee and a blueberry muffin from the woman behind the counter.

She pours the coffee into a paper to-go cup and looks at him over. “Saw you hauling boxes out there yesterday. You’re new here?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Just moved in across the street.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You got a name?”

“Dean,” he offers.

“I’m Ellen.” She slides the cup of coffee coffee toward him across the counter. “Well, Dean, you’ve either got great taste in coffee or just didn’t notice the Starbucks a block over.” She fishes a muffin out of the display case and passes it to him. “First one’s on the house. Welcome to the neighbourhood.”

Dean opens his mouth to argue, but she cuts him off with a stern look. He ducks his head and mumbles a “Thank you, ma’am.” Before he leaves, he digs a crumpled $5 bill out of his pocket and tucks it into the tip jar.

He proceeds to burn his tongue on the hot coffee and slip on a patch of ice crossing the street, nearly losing his balance. When he makes it back to his building, there’s a guy standing outside the door. He’s in front of the intercom box, jabbing ineffectually at the call button and swearing under his breath. In his other hand, he’s clutching five leashes corresponding to five dogs crowded around his feet.

“Can I help you?” Dean says.

The guy turns around. He’s got untidy dark hair sticking up in every direction that gives him the impression of having recently been struck by lightning. There are dark shadows under his eyes and a few days’ worth of stubble shadowing his jaw. His brow is pinched with irritation.

“Yes.” His voice is flat and deep. “I seem to have locked myself out.”

“No problem,” Dean says, stepping toward the door. “I got my key.”

The guy watches while Dean unlocks the door, his expression a blend of confusion and annoyance that makes him look a bit like an owl. “I haven’t seen you before,” he comments, in that same dry, abrupt tone.

“Yeah, I just moved in yesterday.” Dean gets the door open, but the guy keeps on standing there staring at him. “I’m Dean,” he tries.

The guy blinks at him. “Castiel”

 _Weird name_. Dean wonders if he was born into a religious cult or something. “Are those all your dogs?” he asks.

Castiel glances down and looks surprised to see the dogs there, waiting patiently. “No.” He offers no further explanation, but follows Dean into the building and heads for the stairs.

“Any idea when they’ll be fixing the elevator?” Dean asks, trailing up the stairs behind him, keeping enough distance so he doesn’t trip over any of the dogs.

“It’s been out of order for more than a month,” Castiel says. “The superintendent is on vacation and probably won’t call anyone to come and repair it until January. I hope you enjoy cardio.”

Dean very much does _not_ enjoy cardio, even under the best of circumstances. Castiel, on the other hand, walks like it’s a competitive sport. He doesn’t seem at all winded by the stairs. One of the dogs—a pomeranian—struggles to keep up, so Cas stops, bends down, and tucks the dog under his arm before picking up the pace again.

By the time they reach the fourth floor, Dean’s out of breath. Castiel stops abruptly, sets the dog down carefully and turns to look at him. “This is my floor.”

“Mine too,” Dean wheezes.

“Oh,” Castiel says shortly. He holds the door for Dean, which gets complicated with all the dogs at his feet crowding the doorway. “So that was your music last night.”

“Huh?” Dean says, digging his keys back out of his pocket as Castiel and the five dogs squeeze into the alcove with him, stopping in front of the door to the apartment next to Dean’s.

“The walls aren’t well insulated,” Castiel says, opening the door to his place. “I heard music.”

“Shit, yeah, sorry.” Dean unlocks his own door. “Fell asleep with it on. Wait, you didn’t lock your front door?”

He’s giving Dean that irritated owl look again. His eyes are very blue and the staring is getting weird. Dean wonders if he’s high. On the spectrum, maybe. “No.”

“Right,” Dean says awkwardly, pushing the door open. “Well, see you later Castiel.”

Castiel stares at Dean for another minute too long, then nods. “Dean.”

Dean shuts the door behind him and shakes his head. _There’s always a weird neighbour_. At least Castiel seems harmless enough. A little eccentric, but Dean’s dealt with much worse.

He picks at the blueberry muffin. It’s delicious, but he doesn’t have much of an appetite. The coffee isn’t bad, and he manages to drink most of it while it’s still warm. When he feels marginally more awake, he snaps a picture of his new place and texts it to Sam, making sure to keep the untouched boxes and obvious lack of décor out of the frame as best he can. He showers, lukewarm because he can’t figure out how to adjust the tap quite right. Digs around in his duffel for clean clothes. Makes his bed. Looks around at the boxes surrounding him, sealed with tape.

Dean decides to go to work instead of dealing with that can of worms. He puts his jacket back on and takes the bus to the garage. It snowed again last night, and the bus’s tires slip in the fresh accumulation more than once on the way.

When the bell hooked to the shop’s front door jingles, Bobby looks up from behind the counter. His eyebrows lift in surprise when he spots Dean.

“Finished unpacking already?” he asks.

“Yeah, new place is all set up,” Dean lies easily. “Got anything for me to work on back there?”

Bobby stays quiet for too long, which Dean knows means he’s choosing his words carefully. “Listen, Dean. Why don’t you come back after the holidays? You deserve the break.”

Dean shakes his head. “Come on, Bobby. You know I need the money. I need to get back to work.”

“Look.” Bobby lowers his voice and leans in across the counter. “I can’t let you come back right now. Three weeks ago you were showing up drunk and damn near hacking your lungs out on the job.” He gives Dean a once-over, eyes narrowed. “You still look like shit.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Thanks. I’m better now, Bobby. I swear.”

Bobby shakes his head. “I made a promise I’d take care of you. If you need anything, I’m here. Hell, I’ll even front you some money.” He pushes back off the counter, makes his way over to the register and pops the drawer. He pulls out several bills and returns to Dean, pushes the money across the counter towards him. “Call it a holiday bonus. But you need to take some more time, son.”

Anger sparks through Dean’s veins like a flash fire, sudden and uncontrollable. He shoves the pile of bills away forcefully. “Christ, I don’t want your money. Forget it.”

He stalks away, not bothering to turn when Bobby calls after him. Shoves his way out the door and around the corner to the near-empty parking lot. His hands are shaking. There’s something hot and overwhelming bubbling up in his chest, threatening to burst.

Dean curls his hand into a fist and strikes the brick wall once, hard. The pain is immediate and intense, and the anger begins to subside instantly in response. He leans into the wall, cradling his hand, and takes a minute to breathe.

Then he starts walking. The adrenaline from the anger and pain wears off quickly and he’s left numb and empty. So he walks, until the daylight dims and the streetlights flicker on and there’s snow drifting down again.

When he finally stops walking, it’s dark out. Dean can’t feel his feet, or his hands. It takes him a minute to realize he’s outside Ellen’s. Without realizing it, he’d walked all the way home.

He pushes the door open, and the gust of warm air that greets him makes him shiver violently. There are only a few people inside. He sits at a table by the window, under the row of colourful twinkling lights, and stares out at the snow while he waits for his hands and feet to come back to life.

“Dean?”

It’s the guy from this morning. His hair is still a mess. _Cas_ , his name tag says.

“Huh?” Dean says, brain struggling to come back online. “You work here?”

 _Cas_ looks down at his apron. “Yes. Are you all right? You’re bleeding.”

Dean looks at his skinned knuckles. The hand is starting to swell. He flexes it slowly, hisses at the pain. Nothing broken though. “Yeah,” he says. “Fine.”

“Wait here,” Cas says, like he thinks Dean has places to be. He disappears behind the counter for a minute and comes back with several ice cubes wrapped in plastic wrap. There’s a clean dish towel draped over his arm. He covers the ice with the towel and hands it to Dean. “For your hand.”

“Thanks.” Dean holds the ice to his knuckles. The cold soothes his stinging hand, but chills the rest of him. He starts shivering again almost immediately.

Cas frowns. Wordlessly, he goes back behind the counter again. When he returns, he’s carrying a steaming mug of coffee, which he sets on the table in front of Dean.

Dean mumbles his thanks. “I can pay,” he offers.

“Not necessary,” Cas says. “It’s close enough to the end of the night that I’ll end up throwing most of the pot away if you don’t drink it.”

Dean nods, tips the mug toward Cas in appreciation.

“Let me know if you need anything else,” Cas says, before leaving to wipe down tables.

Dean reaches for the mug, wraps his uninjured hand around it to balance out the chill of the ice. Eventually, he stops shivering.

+

Dean’s first week in his new place goes like this: he wakes up sometime around noon, shivering and sweat-damp. By the time he’s showered and gotten dressed there’s another few inches of snow on the ground and it’s dark out again and he’s tired enough to doze off on the couch until two or three in the morning, when he drags himself back to bed.

The only thing that breaks the cycle is his daily trip to Ellen’s coffee shop. He can’t be bothered to dig through boxes for his own coffee maker, and doesn’t see the point of going to the trouble of making a whole pot for himself in the first place when he’d just end up throwing most of it away. Dean pieces together enough of Cas’s schedule to learn that he mostly works at the shop on weekends and the occasional evening. Ellen’s there the rest of the time. Both of them are wont to refuse to let Dean pay, but he always tips generously to make up for it. He’s not anyone’s goddamn charity case.

Then, a week after he moves in, he’s half-passed out on the futon with the TV playing quietly when he’s roused from his evening nap by sudden noise coming through the wall.  It’s some sort of metallic clanging, punctuated by the muffled but recognizable sound of loud and creative cursing.

Dean coughs, blinks sleep out of his eyes and rubs at a crick in his neck. He’s got to stop falling asleep sitting up. He throws a flannel shirt on over his tee, heads across the alcove to Cas’s door and knocks, careful to use his left hand—his right is mostly healed, but still bruised and a little tender.

Cas answers the door, clutching a wrench in one hand and looking more irritated and unkempt than usual. He’s wearing a hoodie and scarf and his nose is red. “Oh,” he says, brightening up considerably. “Hello, Dean.”

“Hey,” Dean says, clearing his throat when he hears how groggy he sounds. “Everything all right? Thought I heard something.”

“My radiator stopped working.” Cas looks down at the wrench in his hand. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

The sleeves of Cas’s hoodie are pushed up high enough for Dean to realize that he’s _covered_ in tattoos, wrapping around his forearms in intricate black-and-white spirals. _Waves_ , Dean thinks. He clears his throat again. This time, it’s entirely unnecessary. “Hey, well today’s your lucky day. I hear a mechanic just moved in next door.”

Castiel looks puzzled, then surprised. “Oh.” He holds the wrench out. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

Dean takes the wrench and Cas steps aside to let him in. The layout of Cas’s apartment is the mirror image of his own, but the contents couldn’t be more different. Coming from such a strange guy, he’d expected a mess, but Cas’s décor is refined and minimalistic. Most of the hardwood floor is covered with a thick, soft rug. Aside from a simple pine bedframe, table, and sectional sofa, the only pieces of furniture are the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining every wall.

Dean shivers. Cas’s apartment is freezing. He kneels next to the radiator and checks over the nuts and air vents while Cas hovers above him. “Got a pipe wrench?” he asks. “Not much I can do with this one.”

Cas shakes his head. “No.”

Dean tests the valve at the bottom of the radiator. The handle spins uselessly, clearly busted. “Huh. I think it needs a new valve.”

Cas sighs irritably. “Right. I suppose I’ll be freezing my way into the new year by the time the superintendent gets around to it.”

“Nah.” Dean sits back on his heels and coughs into his elbow. “We can hit up the hardware store tomorrow for a wrench and a replacement. It’s an easy fix. I’ll bill the super when he gets back.”

“Thank you,” Cas says, offering him a hand up.

Cas’s hand is warm, and surprisingly soft, and Dean hangs on a second too long while he rides out the head rush that comes from standing too quickly. Then he looks around the room again. “No dogs?”

Cas shakes his head. “I told you, they aren’t mine. I look in on them during the day, while their owners are working.”

He’s watching Dean again, in that too-intense way he’s becoming familiar with.

“Hey,” Dean says, to break the tension. “Instead of freezing your ass off all night, why not come over to my place for a bit? We can order pizza.”

Cas actually smiles. “Thank you. I’d like that.”

Dean doesn’t second-guess himself until they step through the door to his apartment and Cas visibly takes stock of the bare walls, the unmade bed, the cardboard boxes still piled up around the room. In contrast to the cleanliness and organization of Cas’s place, Dean suddenly feels incompetent and embarrassed. But it’s warm inside, and Cas doesn’t comment.

He offers Cas a beer and orders a pizza from the place down the street. It doesn’t take long to arrive, and they eat together on the futon in companionable quiet. Dean manages to eat most of a slice of pepperoni, but the grease sits heavy in his stomach. His head is swimming—must be from the beer, even though he’s only had one. He closes his eyes until the queasy sensation passes.

When he opens them, Cas is watching him again. “You should eat more,” he says. “You don’t look well.”

“Christ,” Dean sighs. “You sound like my brother.”

“You have a brother?” Cas says, concern turning to interest.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Kid’s a genius. Just got accepted to Stanford Law on a full ride at twenty-two.” Even when he insists on playing the pissy little brother for weeks at a time, Dean can’t help but brag about Sam. Hell, he practically raised the kid. He’s earned bragging rights.

“It sounds like you’re very close,” Cas says.

Dean nods in vague agreement. _We used to be,_ he doesn’t say _._

“And your parents?”

There it is: the dreaded follow-up. Dean swallows. “Dead.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Cas is quiet for a minute, then: “What happened?”

“Uh.” Dean contemplates telling the guy to fuck off. For whatever reason, his idiot mouth keeps talking instead. “Our house burned down when I was a kid. Mom didn’t make it out in time. And, uh, my dad was in a car wreck a couple months back.”

Another pause. “Dean—”

“How about you?” Dean interrupts before Cas can continue. “Any family?”

Cas finally looks away from Dean. “A sister.”

“You two close?” he asks.

Cas hums thoughtfully. He’s looking distantly out the window.

Dean’s lungs choose that moment to stage a rebellion, and by the time he’s done laboriously hacking them up a couple minutes later, Cas has stood and put his scarf back on. “Thank you for letting me borrow your heat,” he says shortly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, sure,” Dean says, still reeling from light-headedness, chest pain, and the sudden turn in conversation. “Anytime.”

Then Cas is gone, and Dean is left to wonder what the hell just happened. He doesn’t think it’s fair of Cas to be so pushy when it comes to everything about Dean’s life but completely closed-off about his own. At least Dean has the courtesy to leave people well enough alone when he wants the same.

In the end, he’s too tired to be more than cursorily irritated at Cas, and he falls asleep soon after.

+

A knock on his door at nine the next morning rouses him from sleep several hours earlier than he’s accustomed to. Dean rubs at his aching chest and tries not to feel queasy at the sight and smell of the congealed half-eaten pizza still sitting out on the coffee table. He throws it out before answering the door.

The dark shadows under Cas’s eyes are more pronounced than usual. He’s still wearing the same scarf and hoodie he had on last night, which leads Dean to believe he slept in them.

“Sleep well?” Dean asks brightly.

“I was freezing all night,” Cas grumbles. “Are you all right? I heard you coughing.”

“Fine,” Dean says. “I’m fine.”

They grab coffee from Ellen’s and walk together to the hardware shop two blocks down. Inside, Cas pretends to look interested in power tools while Dean picks up a pipe wrench and searches for the right radiator valve. The clerk behind the counter curls her lip and glares at him when he hacks into his elbow for several long moments before pulling a couple of twenties out of his pocket and handing them to her.

He offers an apologetic smile and a weak, “Sorry.”

Back inside the apartment building, Cas asks if they can make a detour to the second floor as they begin to mount the staircase. “I need to check on Buster,” he says. “He was vomiting yesterday.”

They take the second-floor exit and stop in front of unit 203. Cas pulls a keyring overflowing with dozens of keys from his pocket.

“Whoa,” Dean says. “Are those all for places in here?”

“Yes,” Cas says, sifting through the keys.

Dean whistles, impressed. “You must be making bank off these dogs.”

Cas glances up from the keys, brow furrowed. “I don’t make anything.” Before Dean can respond to that, he locates the correct key and unlocks the door.

Buster, it turns out, is a greying Jack Russell. He growls at Dean and takes a few, uncertain steps backward. Dean kneels down and holds out his hand, which Buster sniffs cautiously before wagging his tail happily and licking Dean’s fingers.

Cas kneels and scratches the dog between his ears. “He likes you.”

“People here really trust you, huh?” Dean says.

Cas meets Dean’s gaze. “Yes,” he says. “I suppose so.”

Cas tucks Buster under one arm and they resume the climb up the last four flights of stairs. Dean breathes heavily through his nose to hide the fact that he’s winded. Christ, Cas walks fast. He clears his throat several times to keep from coughing again.

Sitting on the floor in front of the radiator is a welcome reprieve after all the walking he’s done this morning. Now that he has the right equipment it’s an easy fix, and within half an hour the thing’s chugging out heat again. Dean is drenched with sweat by the time he stands and turns back to Cas, although he still feels chilled.

Cas is sitting on the sofa, with his head tipped back in contentment. “That’s much better. I loathe the cold. Thank you, Dean.”

Dean takes a little bow and the resulting head rush sends him tipping off balance. When he rights himself, Cas is frowning.

“Come sit down,” he orders. “Are you sure you’re all right? You look exhausted.”

Dean flops down perpendicular to Cas. The couch is much more comfortable than his futon. Exhaustion hits him like a brick wall and it becomes difficult to keep his eyes open. He rubs wearily at his temples, where he can feel a headache starting to build.

Cas observes him thoughtfully for several moments, then stands and disappears into the kitchen. He returns bearing a small glass bottle, which he unscrews before drawing up half a dropper full of amber liquid. He holds it out to Dean. “Here. Take this.”

“What is it?” Dean asks.

“THC oil,” Cas says. “It’ll help you relax and stimulate your appetite. You’ve lost weight since we met.”

That’s a bit irritating, but what the hell—Dean’s not opposed to a little recreational substance use once in a while. He takes the dropper.

“Under your tongue,” Cas instructs. “Normally I’d suggest smoking since the effects are more immediate, but I’m almost certain you’d keel over and die if you inhaled anything other than air right now.”

Dean shrugs and pinches the dropper of liquid under his tongue. The flavour is sharp and heady. He hands the bottle back to Cas, who draws up a dropperful for himself, although Dean notes he takes considerably more for himself than he’d given Dean.

He dozes on Cas’s couch for a while before he can feel it kicking in. Eventually, his sluggish brain quits fighting and quiets down into a smooth, calm rhythm. His vision gets clearer. Cas stands up at some point and Buster ends up in Dean’s lap. Dean strokes his head absently. The dog’s ears are velvety soft.

Cas returns bearing a turkey sandwich on a plate, which he proffers to Dean. “Eat,” he urges.

Dean means to politely refuse until he realizes he’s hungry for the first time in recent memory. He takes a bite and sighs in contentment. It tastes better than anything he’s eaten in weeks.

“Thanks,” he says around a mouthful of food. “‘S good.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Cas murmurs, sitting back down next to Dean. Buster lifts his head from Dean’s lap and sniffs at the plate hopefully.

“You wish, buddy,” Dean says. Then: “You seriously don’t make any money off the dogs? Ellen can’t be paying you that well.”

“Ellen doesn’t pay me either,” Cas says, reaching over to scratch Buster between the ears. “I offered to look after the shop for her on weekends. That way she can spend time with her daughter without worrying about finances."

“Huh.” Maybe the guy’s parents are super rich or something. Or maybe he deals weed for a living. It feels like the more Dean learns about Cas, the less he knows. It’s an uneasy thought, so he doesn’t pursue the subject any further.

Dean manages to finish the sandwich. Then feels sick to his stomach and has to close his eyes again.

Some time later, he wakes up slumped over with his head pillowed on Cas’s thigh. It’s getting dark outside, and the apartment is bathed in the orange glow of lamplight. Dean feels warm. Cas is stroking Dean’s hair absently with one hand and holding a book in the other. Where the cuff of his sleeve is pushed up, Dean catches a glimpse of tattoo.

 _Not waves_ , he realizes. _Wings._

He wonders how far up the tattoos go, imagines them wrapping around strong shoulders and across a broad back, meeting in the smooth divot between shoulder blades. For a minute, Dean gets lost thinking about what it would be like to trace the patterns with his hands, warm against the soft expanse of Cas’s skin.

 _Jesus_ , he’s high. Dean sits up slowly and Cas’s hand drops to his shoulder. As soon as he’s upright, the headache comes pounding back. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Got any Advil?”

“Tylenol.” Cas’s voice is a low rumble. He doesn’t look up from his book. “In the medicine cabinet.”

Dean stumbles to the bathroom and shuts the door. He splashes his face with cold water, then rummages through Cas’s medicine cabinet for painkillers. There are several orange prescription bottles with Cas’s name on them, and he’s reading the labels before he can stop himself. He recognizes the names of antidepressants, mood stabilizers, and anti-anxiety meds. Christ.

He finds the Tylenol, pops three without water, and shuts the cabinet. Catches a glimpse of his own pale, guilty face looking back at him in the mirror before he turns out the light.

+

That night, Dean dreams about his dad. His phone is ringing and he knows it’s important but he can’t get up, arms and legs too heavy to move, throat too dry to do more than whisper. Then there’s a knock at the door, and the sound of his dad’s voice, slurred and moaning: “Come on, Dean. Open the door, kiddo. Please. I’m in trouble out here. Dean.” Panic mounts in Dean’s chest. Something’s out there, coming for him, but as much as he struggles, he can’t move, can’t call out for his dad to run. He’s completely paralyzed.

Dean wakes up suffocating. His cheeks are wet. He hacks his lungs up for a solid five minutes before he can breathe close to normally again. When he fumbles for his inhaler on the bedside table, he finds it empty. Something deep in his chest is aching. His sheets are soaked through with cold sweat and he’s shivering.

“Fuck it,” he says to himself. The weak rasp of his voice echoes loudly in his own ears.

He manages to get himself dressed and downstairs, slowly. He has another coughing fit on the bus, but he’s too consumed by feeling shitty to spare any guilt for all the people forced to share a confined space with him. Luckily, the closest urgent care clinic is only a ten-minute ride away.

After he checks in with the receptionist, Dean waits in a hard plastic chair in the intake area until the nurse calls his name. She takes his temperature and informs him he’s running a fever. Then he dozes in the examination room until the doctor comes in.

“Your file says you were treated for pneumonia last month?” she says brusquely when she enters the room, scanning the clipboard in her hand.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Guess it’s back.”

“Did you take your full course of antibiotics?” she asks.

“Uh.” Dean’s memory has been bad lately. Last month was even worse. But how do you tell a doctor, _I don’t really remember much that’s happened since October._ “I think so? Might have missed a few days.”

“Hm.” She seems unimpressed. “I’ll write you another prescription. Some people find it helpful to set an alarm to remind them to take the antibiotic as recommended. Or you can take it with breakfast and dinner every day.”

Dean can’t remember the last time he ate breakfast or dinner, but he nods obediently.

“I’m also prescribing you a refill for Ventolin,” she says, scribbling something illegible on her prescription pad. “Be sure to look after yourself. If your symptoms persist beyond the next few days, come back in. Okay?”

He nods again, and then she’s ushering him back out to the waiting area.

A pharmacy is conveniently located next door, so he fills the prescriptions there. He checks his phone while he’s waiting to pick up his meds and finds a missed call and a text from Cas.

_Did you go out?_

Dean replies, _Went to urgent care for more meds._

By the time the bus deposits him back home, Dean feels worn-out enough to sleep for a month. The trip up the stairs is excruciatingly slow. Back inside his apartment, he pops two antibiotics with a sip of leftover beer, takes a hit from his new inhaler and crashes out on his bed fully clothed.

He isn’t planning on moving until it’s time for his next dose, but he’s woken too soon by a knock. He coughs, stands, and makes his way over to the door. His whole body hurts.

Cas is holding a steaming metal pot. There’s a grocery bag dangling from the crook of his elbow. “Dean,” he says gruffly. “You look terrible.”

“Thanks,” Dean says.

Cas brushes past him without invitation. He sets the pot on the kitchen counter and starts pulling things out of the bag—cough syrup, lozenges, another bottle of THC oil. The distinct scent of broth wafts through the small space.

“You made me soup?” Dean says.

Cas doesn’t answer, too busy banging around in Dean’s cupboards and drawers. Dean is too tired to question it, goes back to sit on the futon until Cas brings him a steaming bowl of chicken soup.

“Mm,” he says. “Looks good.”

Cas sits next to him and gestures that he should eat. “It’s my sister’s recipe. I’m afraid this is a pale imitation of the real thing.”

“She cooks a lot?” Dean asks, drawing up a spoonful and blowing on it carefully before taking a bite. Even as awful as he feels, the soup is delicious.

“Yes,” Cas says. “Beautifully. My parents wanted Anna to open her own law practice. She opened a restaurant instead.”

“Really? Where?”

“New York City,” Cas says. “My family is from upstate.”

“What’s it called?” Dean asks, taking another bite. “I’ll check it out if I’m ever in the city.”

“It’s been closed for quite some time now.” Cas is quiet for a minute, then: “Anna fell ill a few years ago and wasn’t able to keep up with the demands of running a restaurant.”

“Aw, Cas. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Cas says, offering a sad little smile. “She remains quite successful. She’s published several bestselling recipe books.”

“Hey, tell her thanks for the soup.” Dean’s only managed half the bowl, but his eyelids are starting to feel heavy again.

“I’ll be travelling to visit her in a few days,” Cas says. “I’ll be sure to pass along your compliments.”

“Will you see your parents while you’re there?” Dean asks before he can stop himself.

Cas gives a bitter little laugh. “I’m certain I won’t. They don’t want much of anything to do with me.”

“Cas.” Dean’s sluggish brain can’t think of much else to say.

“It’s quite all right,” Cas says. He takes the half-empty bowl from Dean’s limp fingers. “You should sleep. I’ll check in again later.”

Dean tries to argue, to think of something else to say, but he’s mostly asleep already, and by the time he has a thought half-formed, Cas is gone.

+

Two days of sleeping and diligently taking his meds later, Dean still feels shitty, but at least marginally less like he’s going to suffocate from walking ten feet to the bathroom. He manages to shower, then sits on his bed and surveys the boxes stacked against the wall. Okay. He’s twenty-six years old and he can’t live out of a duffel bag forever. Just one. He only has to start with one.

The first box he opens is full of books, which he doesn’t have a shelf for yet. He shifts the books aside and unearths a stack of photographs from underneath. The top one is of him, Dad and Sam in front of the car, all smiling. Dean shivers, nausea creeping back in.

He closes the box and goes back to bed.

+

When he can’t stand languishing in his cramped apartment a second longer, Dean bundles up in warm clothes and heads downstairs to the coffee shop. Walking down the stairs leaves him dizzy and breathless, which he chalks up to sitting around on his ass and not eating enough.

“Good to see you,” Ellen says, pouring him his usual black coffee. “I was starting to worry.”

He thanks her and takes the seat next to the fireplace, where he sits and warms his hands on the mug of coffee without really drinking from it. After a while, Cas comes through the door with several neighbourhood dogs in tow. He chats with Ellen for a while by the counter, then looks over and spots Dean.

Dean gives a little wave.

Cas frowns. He approaches Dean’s spot by the fireplace. “You shouldn’t be out of bed,” he says, disapproving.

“Nah, I’m feeling much better,” Dean says, resisting the urge to cough.

“Really?” Cas looks skeptical, but the frown disappears. “In that case, you should come walk to the park with us. It isn’t far.”

Dean doesn’t really want to abandon his warm fireside chair, but he figures the fresh air will be good for him. And, if he’s being honest, he’s missed spending time with Cas. Outside, it’s snowing lightly. The cold air burns in his lungs and he starts shivering almost immediately, but it’s nice to be out of his apartment.

When they get to the park, Cas lets some of the dogs off the leash. He smiles watching them run and play, so wide Dean can see his gums. His teeth are as white as the snow slowly gathering in his untidy hair.

“I think that dog just took a shit,” Dean says, gesturing to a black toy poodle.

Cas sighs, pulling a plastic bag from his pocket and crouching down to search through the snow for the offending turd. Dean takes the opportunity to scoop up a handful of snow and pelt Cas in the back of the head.

Cas whips his head around, glaring. “Dean,” he says sternly. “I really don’t think—”

Dean doesn’t see the snowball coming until it clips him hard in the shoulder. “Oh, it’s on,” he declares, and whips another one at Cas’s face before ducking behind a nearby bench to take cover and restock.

They trade blows for a while. Then, when Cas turns around to find more ammunition, Dean dives out from behind cover and tackles him, knocking the snowball out of his hand. Reflexively, Cas throws his weight into Dean, knocking him off balance and onto his back in the snow.

Dean breathes hard, winded. Cas is suspended above him, holding himself up on his palms, flat in the snow on either side of Dean’s head. The vapour from their breath forms a single cloud in the narrow space between them. There are snowflakes in Cas’s dark eyelashes. Cas parts his lips and Dean tips his head up, fighting to suppress a cough.

“Dean,” Cas says. “Have you considered speaking with a therapist?”

Dean recoils. “What the hell, Cas?”

“You’ve been exhibiting signs of clinical depression,” Cas continues earnestly. “It’s not uncommon during the grieving process to struggle with feelings of guilt and isolation. I think you might benefit from—”

“Get off me,” Dean says, shoving Cas back with both hands and climbing to his feet with effort. “I’ve been _sick_ , Cas. Not depressed.”

“It’s been three weeks since you moved in and you haven’t unpacked your belongings,” Cas says, getting to his feet. “You haven’t been eating. You drink too much beer for someone as sick as you’ve been.”

“Are you done?” Dean is too hot and too cold at the same time, but he feels energized for the first time in days. “Listen, I don’t know where you get off with this psychoanalysis bullshit, but it seems to me like you might be projecting. Just ‘cause you’re clinically off your rocker doesn’t mean I am, pal.”

Cas looks stricken. “Dean, I—”

But Dean can’t stop now. His fight-or-flight instincts are kicking in, the same instinct that four years ago had shouted at Sam to _Get out, then. We don’t need you._ “Jesus,” he hears himself say. “No wonder you live alone.”

Cas’s teeth clack together audibly. He blinks.

Dean shakes his head and stalks away out of the park. He gets the sense he’s moving slower than he should be. He can’t feel his hands or feet, but he keeps moving, fuelled by the cold rage in his stomach.

He waits until he’s rounded the corner of the next block to double over and wheeze. He can’t breathe and the little gulps of air he’s getting in are coming too fast and shallow. This used to happen when he was younger, after mom died. Dad had to quit smoking cold turkey because if Dean so much as smelled smoke of any kind he’d stop being able to breathe right until dad would rub his back and tell him everything would be fine, over and over.

Then Dean’s breath catches and he starts coughing. He digs his inhaler out of his pocket and holds it to his lips, but can’t stop coughing long enough to get the medication to his lungs. The spasms keep coming, wrenched up from deep in his chest, until his vision goes dark at the edges and he has to lean against the closest wall just to stay standing.

Eventually, the coughing fit subsides. Dean struggles to catch his breath. Every inhale burns in his chest despite the cold air. He straightens up, wipes his mouth on his jacket sleeve. It comes away streaked with red.

“Fuck,” he wheezes painfully, to no one in particular.

At his feet, a fine spray of blood coats the muddy slush.

+

It takes less than an hour for Dean’s unbridled rage to turn to sour guilt. It sits cold and nauseating in his stomach, pounds behind his eyes like a nagging headache. He naps uneasily for a while until the pressure in his chest builds too high and then he’s clawing his way upright and toward the door. He knocks on Cas’s door, tries to shake the buzzing out of his head but the effort just makes him dizzy so he leans up against the wall and waits.

After a few minutes, he knocks again. “Cas?” he calls out hesitantly. “It’s me. Open up.”

Silence. He tries again. “I really need to talk to you.”

Nothing. Dean gives up. He goes back inside his apartment and shuts the door. Leans back against it and digs his phone out of his pocket to text Cas. _I’m sorry. Can we talk?_

He puts his phone back in his pocket and goes to lie down on the bed. The agitation drains away and he’s left empty, exhausted. Dean sleeps.

When he wakes up, the light coming in through the window above the sink is twilight-grey. He sits up, coughs hard into a tissue and throws it away without looking. Brushes his teeth and downs a couple of swigs of beer to dull the lingering coppery taste in his mouth. Despite having slept, the figure in the bathroom mirror looks pale and haggard, the eyes sunken in. Dean splashes some water on his face, uses his wet hand to attempt to flatten his hair.

He goes next door again, knocks and waits. He shivers in his thin hoodie, shuts his eyes against the bright fluorescents washing out the hallway. Then he’s struck by a sudden epiphany: it’s the weekend. Cas isn’t home. He’s down at Ellen’s.

Dean grips the handrail on his way down the long flights of stairs. Despite the sharp pain in his head and chest, the lower half of his body feels numb and uncoordinated, the sheer force of gravity setting him off-balance. Outside, the wind bites at his face and digs into his throat when he inhales. With great effort, he swallows down a cough.

There’s a long line at Ellen’s. Cas is behind the counter. He looks tired, but something hopeful jolts in Dean’s stomach when he smiles and greets the next customer in line. The sensation crystallizes as guilt, and Dean realizes he doesn’t want to bother Cas while he’s busy—doesn’t think he could stand long enough to make it through the line even if he tried—so he heads back to the lounge chairs and sits as close to the fireplace as he can. Hopefully he’ll be warm again by the time the line dies down. The fire is hot and bright, and he shuts his eyes against it.

When he opens them, it’s to darkness. He’s being shaken violently, a viselike grip on his shoulder.

“Dean,” someone says, gravelly and irritated. _Cas_. “Wake up.”

Dean blinks until the darkness resolves into the low embers of the fireplace and twinkling coloured lights hanging on the walls. Cas is hovering in the centre of his vision, a dark silhouette against the dim glow lighting the room. The shop is quiet, the crowd dispersed.

“Uhh,” Dean says, stupidly.

“What are you doing?” Cas demands.

“Waiting for you.” Dean’s voice sounds garbled and bleary in his own ears. “To apologize. For this morning.” He hopes he’s making sense.

In the low light, Cas’s eyebrows draw together in birdlike confusion. “Dean, we haven’t spoken since yesterday.”

“Huh?” It doesn’t make sense. There’s no way he slept that long.

Cas releases Dean’s shoulder, puts the back of his hand to Dean’s forehead. He frowns and cocks his head. “You have a fever.” In the darkness, the shop seems smaller than it is, and the quiet rumble of Cas’s voice only serves to intensify the feeling. It makes it hard to think. Dean shivers, and Cas’s frown deepens. “The antibiotics should have started working by now.”

His hand goes to Dean’s elbow and tugs, attempting to pull him up, but Dean resists. He grabs Cas’s wrist. “Cas,” he says, imploring Cas to understand what he’s trying to say. “I didn’t mean it. I was an asshole.”

Cas sighs. “You should be in bed. Come on.”

Somehow, without Dean’s permission or clear recollection, Cas manhandles him into a standing position, across the street and up all the flights of stairs. Hazily, Dean gets the sense that it takes longer than he perceives. At the end, he’s deposited back into his bed. He grabs hold of Cas’s wrist again.

“Cas,” he says, not sure of what he’s going to say next but determined to stop Cas from leaving until he can make him understand.

That’s when he feels it, under his thumb. Over the warm steady rhythm of Cas’s pulse, a raised ridge of scar tissue. His grip on Cas’s wrist tightens reflexively.

Cas tenses and moves to pull away. “Dean.”

Dean doesn’t let up. He struggles upright, takes Cas’s arm in both hands and turns the forearm upward. The pinkish scar tissue is barely visible under the intricate design of Cas’s tattoo. Dean traces it by touch, a vertical line extending from the base of Cas’s hand to the rolled cuff of his sleeve halfway up his forearm.

“Jesus Christ, Cas,” he whispers.

Cas sighs, twists out of Dean’s grip. “Dean, that’s enough.” His eyes dart around the room, toward the door—looking anywhere but at Dean. “I’m meant to be catching a flight in a few hours. I’ll call and cancel. You shouldn’t be left alone in this state.”

“No.” Dean interrupts before Cas has even finished speaking. “No. You have to see your sister. I’ll be fine. I can handle it. I promise.”

Finally, Cas looks at him. His eyebrows pinch together, appraising Dean with a mixture of concern and intense discomfort. Dean gets the distinct impression that the idea of staying here with him is incredibly unappealing. He doesn’t blame Cas for it.

Cas looks away and runs a hand through his hair. He sighs deeply, then stands. “Please, take care of yourself,” he says, without looking at Dean. “We can talk when I get back.”

Dean means to apologize, but Cas is gone before he can find the words.

+

He drifts in and out, dreaming—the blood in the snow, the look of shocked hurt on Cas’s face, and always the phone ringing in the background like a buzzing mosquito. When he’s not shifting between uneasy dreams, he’s shivering and sweating and coughing, coughing, coughing. His chest burns even when he lies very still and concentrates on breathing as shallowly as possible. He takes his antibiotics whenever the alarm goes off. Sips some water when he remembers. Texts Cas back when he wakes up with three new notifications checking in on him.

Eventually, he wakes up long enough to piss and brush his teeth. When he makes it back to bed, his phone is ringing. Sam.

He picks up. “Heya, Sammy.”

“Dean?” Sam says, quiet. “You sound awful.”

“Thanks, kid,” Dean mumbles. He clears his throat. “Just been getting extra into the Christmas spirit lately, y’know what I mean?”

Silence, too long for Dean’s liking. Usually he can’t get the kid to shut up. Then: “Are you okay? Sure you don’t want to fly out here tomorrow? I could come pick you up—”

“Sam.” It takes a lot to muster the annoyance to make himself sound stern. “Lay off.”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “Yeah, okay.” The sound of his breathing comes through the line, and for a moment Dean wishes intensely that his brother was here. “I just want you to be happy. You know that, right?”

Dean sighs, but there’s more exhaustion than irritation in it. “Sure, kiddo.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

He swallows, blinks several times before he gets out: “Yeah. Talk to you later.”

He turns his phone off after that. It doesn’t do anything to silence the ringing that continues, loud and incessant, in his dreams.

+

Someone is calling Dean’s name from very far away, staticking in and out like a call breaking up. _Dad?_ Or maybe he’s underwater because the sound is muffled but also he’s—drowning. He can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.

“Dean? Wake up, Dean!”

Dean opens his eyes. Cas’s face is hovering above him, pinched and birdlike. He’s got Dean by the shoulders and he’s shaking him. Again.

Dean opens his mouth, licks his lips and draws breath, meaning to say something to the effect of _Lay the fuck off. I’m sleeping._ He only gets as far as a tiny sip of air before his clogged lungs react and set him off coughing and gasping for breath. It goes on forever, until Dean is convinced he’s drowning.

When it subsides, he’s gripping the front of Cas’s shirt, hanging on desperately to keep from being pulled under the waves. Cas has his phone to his ear and he’s saying something, but Dean is shivering too hard to hear it. His lips say, _Ambulance_.

Dean shakes his head, makes to push Cas away but he must be weaker than he thought because all he manages is an ineffectual shove at Cas’s shoulder. The movement makes it hard to breathe and Dean loses some time trying not to suffocate.

Cas gets his hands under Dean’s armpits and hauls him upright, braces Dean against his chest to keep him elevated. The change in position lessens some of the pressure in Dean’s chest and he draws in a couple of weak, gasping breaths.

“Good,” Cas says, but his words are warped and muffled by the sound of rushing blood in Dean’s ears. “That’s good, Dean. Just breathe.”

Dean can’t, but he leans against Cas and tries to match the steady pace of his breathing anyway. Focuses on the thrumming of his heartbeat against Dean’s shoulder, faster than it should be. He’s too worn out to cough anymore, just wheezing and convulsing ineffectually, which he knows scares Cas because of how his grip tightens on Dean’s arm when it happens. He doesn’t have the breath to apologize.

The next time he comes back to himself, he’s lying down again but his bed is shaking and shuddering beneath him— _ambulance._ There are several people hovering above him. Dean doesn’t recognize them. Something is strapped to his face, over his mouth, tight and constraining. He lifts his hand to remove the offending object, but someone catches his hand.

 _Cas_. He holds Dean’s hand between both of his, gripping tight. His face is wet with tears and his lips are moving, but Dean can’t parse the words, so he just gives Cas’s hand a little squeeze back and lets the darkness take him again.

He gets flashes after that—a din of several panicked voices and white hallways. The prick of a needle in his arm. A haze of masked faces above him and the sharp scent of chemicals. He searches for Cas but can’t find him. Then he’s dragged back down, down under the black water, too deep for anyone to find him.

He doesn’t dream.

+

Dean opens his eyes and all he sees is white. It feels like a dream, the way he tries to move, to talk, but his brain won’t connect to his numb body so all he can do for a long while is blink and breathe. Dean experiences an immense rush of gratitude that he’s even capable of those things. A rhythmic beeping comes from somewhere to his left.

After an eternity, his body comes back online enough that he can turn his head. His vision is hazy, but Dean would know the thin, long-limbed figure next to him anywhere, as easy as recognizing his own face in the mirror. He blinks until the pinkish blur resolves into his brother’s pale face.

Sam’s eyes are red-rimmed and he’s frowning deeply. “Jesus Christ, Dean,” he says.

“Go away,” Dean mumbles nonsensically. His mouth is bone-dry, his voice cracked and garbled beyond recognition.

Sam understands him anyway. “Not a chance, asshole.” He reaches for the bedside table and grabs a paper cup, brings the straw to Dean’s lips. “Drink.”

Dean drinks. The cool water helps soothe his throat and get a little moisture in his mouth. He licks his lips. “Sammy,” he says, and it comes out a little more human.

Sam sighs heavily, scrubs a hand over his haggard face. “Yeah,” he says, softer now. “Hi.”

Dean is still trying to piece together the fragmented bits of his memory. “Whatcha doin’ here?”

Sam huffs a dry laugh and shakes his head. “Unfuckingbelievable. You really think you could get away with almost dying and I wouldn’t come see you?”

“Huh?” Dean says, perplexed. It doesn’t make sense. He’d been taking his meds. Sure, the coughing up blood part was a little concerning, but he doesn’t think he felt like he was _dying_ or anything.

Sam must read the confusion on his face. “Yeah, idiot. You almost died. Of _tuberculosis_ , like some maiden in a fucking Victorian novel. They said if Cas hadn’t found you—” He breaks off and blinks rapidly, swallowing visibly several times.

“But,” Dean says haltingly, still trying to piece it all together in his foggy head. Just staying conscious is taking up most of his mental energy. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“‘ _That bad’_?” Sam runs his hand through his hair anxiously. “Cas said you were coughing up blood. That didn’t seem like a good enough excuse to get help to you?”

“I dunno.” It sounds so stupid when Sam says it like that. So simple. He’d gone to the doctor. He’d thought that would be enough. Somewhere along the way, Dean stopped being able to keep track. “I dunno,” he repeats, dumbly. “It’s been… Since.” He swallows past the vise on his throat, can’t get the rest of the words out.

“Yeah,” Sam whispers. “I know.” He looks away and goes silent for a long time. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet and cracked. “Dean, you have to take care of yourself. I—You’re all I have left.” He looks back at Dean, eyes bright with tears. “You know that, right? I can’t lose you too.”

Guilt creeps up from somewhere low in Dean’s stomach, shudders through his chest and up into his throat. “I’m sorry,” he stutters. There’s more he wants to say, but just breathing is making him tired and all the words get jumbled in his head, so he just looks at Sam and offers another, “Sorry.”

Sam takes pity on him then, reaching out and planting a hand on Dean’s shoulder, giving a reassuring squeeze. “It’s okay, Dean,” he says. “Go back to sleep. It’s okay.”

Dean sinks back down into blissful unconsciousness, but this time he tethers himself to Sam’s hand on his shoulder—a buoy on the waves, keeping him from being pulled in too deep again.

+

There’s an indeterminate stretch of time where he drifts in and out of consciousness, waking up long enough to take a few sips of water or hack up what feels like half a lungful of phlegm, but never long enough to get a sense of the passage of time.

Eventually, he opens his eyes and he’s lucid enough to take stock of a few things. First, the lights in the room are dimmed considerably, meaning it must be nighttime outside. Second, he feels _nasty_ , the kind of gritty-unclean that only comes from not showering for an extended period of time. Even so, his head feels clearer than any time in recent memory, the feverish chills and delirium dissipated. He even draws in a half-decent breath and manages not to cough, though it still feels like someone wearing steel toe boots gave him a few solid kicks to the chest while he was unconscious.

The third thing he notices is Cas. He’s lounging in a chair next to the bed, reading a book. Even from this angle, his exhaustion is written plainly on his face and in the set of his slumped shoulders. The sight of him sprawled out in the chair is enough to send a spark of something warm and pleasant radiating outward from Dean’s stomach.

“Did I miss Christmas?” he asks.

Cas looks up from his book, blinks, then sighs sharply and pinches the bridge of his nose. Dean knows him well enough by now to interpret the display of irritation as profound relief without hesitation.

“Dean,” Cas breathes. In the low light and quiet of the hospital room, it sounds like a benediction.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says, equally quiet.

Cas sits up straight, sets his book aside, stretches his neck and checks his watch. “Still half an hour to go. You haven’t missed it. How are you feeling?”

“My dad drank,” Dean says.

Cas cocks his head, caught off-guard, but stays silent.

“I know you think I drink too much, but he _drank._ ” Dean takes a breath. It’s easier like this, whispering into the half-dark. “Spent most of my childhood babysitting his ass, looking after Sammy when he couldn’t. Sam resented him for it, but I never did. He’d been through some shit in his life that… Well, just believe me when I say he was a good father, all things considered.”

Cas nods—not necessarily agreeing, just showing he’s listening.

Dean swallows and licks his lips. “He used to call me when he drank too much, or if he needed anything. It always got worse around—around the time of year my mom died. This time it was every night. For over a week he called me every night, until one night I just. Didn’t pick up. I was tired from work, tired of dealing with him. He needed me, and I didn’t pick up. So he decided to drive himself home instead. Crossed the center line of the highway and collided head-on with an eighteen-wheeler.”

“Dean.”

Dean shakes his head. He can’t look at Cas. Can’t feel his fingers or his face. Too high to cry, then. Perfect.

“Dean,” Cas says, still just as quiet, but something in his voice commands Dean to look at him. “It wasn’t your fault.”

He says it with utter conviction that has all the air in Dean’s lungs whooshing out of him at once. Dean drags in another breath. It’s not enough, not nearly enough, but the oxygen being fed through his nose helps.

Cas reaches for his hand, and Dean lets him take it. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Dean hangs on.

+

They let Dean out on New Year’s Eve. He’s got a surgical mask over his face, six months’ worth of prescription slips in his pocket and strict instructions not to leave his apartment for at least three weeks, but he can breathe without coughing and stand without passing out, so he’s calling it a win.

Sam is catching a flight back to California in the afternoon, but he drives Dean home in his rental car first. When they pull up outside the apartment building, Sam and Cas both try to offer him a hand out of the car. It takes him a minute, but Dean stubbornly makes it upright on his own.

“Hey, be careful on the highway,” Dean says to Sam. “I’ve heard they ticket dangerously slow drivers these days.”

Sam shoots him a look that says, _I just watched you piss into a tube for a week. Don’t even start with me._ Then he hugs Dean, folds him up in his giant arms—and Christ, it’s still hard to believe his kid brother is this tall—and hangs on just this side of too tight and too long.

“Hey,” Dean says, when Sam pulls away. “Maybe I’ll think about booking a flight out sometime in the spring.”

Sam smiles wide, then visibly reigns in his excitement. “Yeah,” he says eagerly. “Anytime, Dean.” He turns to Cas. “Take care of him, all right?”

Dean huffs loudly in exasperation, but Cas nods sincerely and says, “Of course, Sam,” like he’s taking a vow or something. Then they shake hands.

Sam makes to open the car door, then pauses with his hand on the handle. “Hey,” he says to Dean. “Give Bobby a call, would you? I don’t know what’s going on with the two of you, but he seems to think this entire thing was his fault. He’s been beating himself up over it for a week. Wouldn’t even let himself come see you. So, whatever it is, do me a favour and put him out of his misery, okay?”

Dean sighs. “Yeah,” he says, and means it. “Yeah, I’ll talk to him.”

Then Sam drives away, and Dean and Cas are alone on the slushy sidewalk outside their building.

They head inside in silence. When Dean sees the out-of-order sign still hanging on the elevator, he mutters “Fuck,” under his breath.

“We’ll take it slow,” Cas says.

They do, stopping for breath at every landing. Cas lets Dean walk mostly unsupported but stays close enough to catch him if he stumbles. By the time they reach the top, Dean is trembling with exhaustion. He’s still breathing though. “All right,” he gripes, winded. “Either someone fixes that elevator or I die up here because I am _not_ doing that again.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Cas says, frowning. “I called the superintendent. He’s hired a repairman for two days from now.”

“Fucking finally,” Dean breathes, as they reach his door.

Inside, his apartment looks distinctly different from how he remembers leaving it. His bed is made. All the trash that had collected while he was sick is gone. There’s food in the kitchen—bananas and tomatoes ripening out on the counter, along with what looks like a homemade pie.

“That had better be pecan,” Dean says, shrugging out of his jacket. He removes the surgical mask and savours a breath of clean, unobstructed air.

“Ellen made it,” Cas says. “Sam insisted on the flavour. Would you like some? There’s whipped cream in the fridge.”

Dean shakes his head. “Nah. Later. Just wanna take a nap in my own bed for now.”

Cas pulls the covers back and helps Dean into some clean sweatpants before he climbs in. _Christ,_ he missed his bed. He’s out like a light within moments after his head touches the pillow. When he sleeps, it isn’t the restless, consuming unconsciousness of the half-dead he’s become used to, but the easy and comfortable doze of an afternoon nap.

He wakes up alone and finds himself surprised by how good he feels. Granted, he’s still exhausted and dealing with the lung capacity of an eighty year-old lifetime smoker, and even the thought of trying to get up and shower by himself makes him want to pull the covers over his head and hibernate until spring, but his head is clear.

For the first time in months, Dean feels like himself.

Getting upright takes more time and effort than he’d care to admit, but he rides out the accompanying rush of weak dizziness and makes his way across the room, to the stack of boxes still piled against the wall. The half-open one is on top. He lifts it off the pile—doesn’t remember it being this _heavy_ last time _—_ and carries it back over to the bed. He lowers himself carefully down to the floor, leans back against the bedframe and sets the box in front of him.

The first thing he sees is the picture. It’s a little faded with age, and the corners are crumpled from where Dean shoved it back into the box. He lifts it out of the box and straightens the edges carefully, reverently.

Then the door opens and Cas enters, holding a paper coffee cup in one hand. He startles visibly when he sees Dean on the floor. “Dean. Are you all right? You should be in bed.”

“Yeah,” Dean rushes to assure him. “I’m fine.”

“It’s not the first time you’ve told me that,” Cas grumbles. He comes over toward Dean, peers curiously at the picture in his hands. “Is that your father?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Dean says. Then he sets the photo on the nightstand.

Cas watches quietly as Dean pulls a stack of books out of the box and sets them on the floor next to him.

“Fuck,” Dean says. “I need a bookcase.”

“Dean,” Cas says, softly.

Dean looks up. Backlit by the kitchen window, Cas is surrounded in a halo of light. His nose is red from the cold and his hair is a mess. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so beautiful in his life.

Cas gestures to the space on the floor beside Dean. “May I?”

Dean nods.

Cas removes his coat and folds down gracefully to sit beside Dean. They sit in silence for a minute, and then Cas reaches over and takes Dean’s hand. His thumb strokes the ridge of Dean’s index finger, which sends sparks of warmth skittering through Dean’s arm.

Dean reaches across with his other hand and takes Cas’s forearm, caressing the place where he knows the scar is hidden under his shirt and tattoos.

Cas looks at him. “Dean.”

Dean meets the intensity of his gaze without hesitation. “Hey.” Not searching, not pressuring. Just signalling that he’s listening, whatever Cas wants to say.

“It was a long time ago,” Cas murmurs. He falls silent long enough that Dean isn’t sure he’s going to continue. Then: “My parents are very wealthy and influential people. My life with them was unbearable, pre-existing clinical depression aside. The future they carved out for me was not one I could pretend to want, and there were times when I didn’t see a way out.”

Dean squeezes his hand fiercely.

Cas gives him a tired little smile. “There were three attempts,” he says. “After the third, Anna helped me find a way out of that life, away from the city and from our parents. Later, when she got sick, I tried to move back to be closer to her but she wouldn’t let me. She knew what it would do to me to go back there. It’s what I need, but—It can be difficult, being away from her, where I’m no use to anyone.”

“Are you serious?” Dean says. “All you ever _do_ is take care of people. Looking after people’s dogs so they don’t have to give em up or pay someone to look after them during the day. Working at Ellen’s for free so she can spend the weekends with her daughter. Saving my goddamn life when I was too stuck in my own head to do anything about it myself.”

Cas looks away. “I nearly failed,” he whispers. “For a while, I was certain I’d lost you.”

“Hey.” Dean gives Cas’s hand another squeeze. “Look at me.”

Cas does.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Dean vows, with as much conviction as he can muster. Then, because he’s determined to wipe the expression of tormented guilt off Cas’s face, he bats his eyelashes and heaves a breathy sigh. “Not with my guardian angel looking out for me.”

The side of Cas’s mouth quirks up at that. He tips his forehead against Dean’s. They breathe together for a moment. Then Cas brings his hand up to cup Dean’s cheek and kisses him. His lips are soft and dry, and Dean instantly feels warmer than he has in weeks.

It doesn’t last long before Dean has to pull away reluctantly or risk becoming dangerously out of breath.

He looks at Cas gravely. “Sorry, buddy,” he says. “Now you’ve definitely got the consumption.”

Cas chuckles. His eyes light up when he laughs. Dean vows to make him laugh as often as possible from now on.

“Happy New Year, Dean,” Cas says.

“Yeah,” Dean sighs. “I guess it is.” He takes a moment to inhale, slow and deep. Then: “Hey, would you mind grabbing another box? It’s about time I unpacked.”

Cas _beams._

It’s a start.

**Author's Note:**

> Titles aren't my strong suit, but this one comes directly from Van Morrison's "T.B. Sheets," which I hope is clever enough to make up for my lack of creativity.
> 
> Comments and kudos are eternally appreciated. This is my longest published fic, my first significant AU, and my first time writing D/C, so I'd love to hear your thoughts!


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